


A Skin Too Tight

by Tish



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dark Magic, Disguise, Gen, Trapped, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 09:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16473146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/pseuds/Tish
Summary: At the end of a mission, Illya could always take off the disguise.





	A Skin Too Tight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nemirovitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemirovitch/gifts).



Illya caught himself from doing a double-take as he caught his reflection in the half-dark of the entrance hall's mirror. For a moment, he'd been sure his grandfather had been standing there. He hadn't intended for any resemblance when he'd donned the disguise, only noticing certain features when they stood in stark relief before him. He put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on his mission.

Entering the grand ballroom, he quickly noted his target, taking in the men and women standing around the candlelit room in groups of two or three.

“Herr Emmerlich, I presume,” a solidly built man said from his spot near the doorway.

“You indeed presume correctly,” Illya replied with a slight Bavarian accent. “A pleasure to meet you, Professor Gorden.”

“Yes, yes. Well, we are all here now. Let us begin,” Gorden said to everyone, as the group gathered around in a circle.

Napoleon, meanwhile, had quickly shimmied into a window and was carefully making his way to an office on an upper floor. When he entered, he pulled a slight face of alarm as he saw a figure with a goat's head sitting in a chair. Satisfied it wasn't actually a human, he turned his attention to the strange collection of occult objects surrounding the books on a full-length bookcase. A series of ceremonial daggers glinted in the low light of the moon, their white pearl handles appearing to float like ghosts.

What looked like a heart sat under a glass dome. It was calcified and shot through with long, steel bolts. Napoleon shuddered and picked the lock to the bureaux, quietly rolling up the shuttered lid. Unlocking the third drawer down, he gave a quick nod as he found what he was looking for, and quickly took it. Time to made good his escape since recovery of the object was the priority.

At the meeting, Illya surreptitiously watched an elderly woman as he listened. She seemed to be listening to something else entirely and her eyes kept tracking up above them, watching for something unknown. Illya wondered if she'd heard Napoleon, despite the room he was targetting being across the house as well as up two levels.

She suddenly fixed her stare upon him and snarled out something Illya couldn't understand. Her hand flicked out, sending something into his eyes. Blinded, he felt his face burning and he lost his balance, clattering to the floor unconscious.

“Illya?” Napoleon felt like he'd been calling his partner's name all night as he finally came round.

“Did I? Oh my head,” Illya slurred as he opened his eyes.

“Your fine, we're fine. Mission accomplished, mostly,” Napoleon reassured him, cradling Illya's head as he struggled to sit up. “Everyone flew outta here like a bat out of hell. Thankfully, they didn't see me with that precious little cargo.”

“That old woman, Madam Ciostar must have second sight or something. I swear she knew you were here. Ugh, let's get out of here, Napoleon,” Illya got to his feet and held his head. “Dizzy.”

“Did they clobber you?” Napoleon asked as he held Illya steady.

Illya started to pull at the prosthetic mask. “She threw something in my face, knock-out powder maybe. Let's just go.”

As they went out the room, Illya kept pulling at his fake face. “The glue's sticky.”

“Wash it off when we get to safety. They might be getting some non-geriatrics to finish us off,” Napoleon said with a wry expression.

At the safe-house, Illya watched his misshapen face in the mirror as he wet his hands, adding the removal gel. “I do look like my grandfather.”

Standing in the doorway, Napoleon grinned. “Good looking man, if I may say so.”

As Illya worked the gel in, he tugged at an edge, hissing as it pulled at his skin. He tried again under his chin and flinched. “I might have to leave the gel in longer. It usually works right away.”

“At least take off the padded suit while you wait,” Napoleon prodded Illya's fake stomach fat and reached for a shirt button. “Damn, that's fiddly.”

Illya tugged at the coat arm, trying to work his shoulder out. He stared at Napoleon, eyes wide and mouth dry.

“Scissors,” Napoleon said to him. “We'll cut the clothes off.”

Illya futilely tugged at the pants, then tried the other coat arm, giving a sigh of frustration as Napoleon readied the scissors. He yelped as Napoleon started cutting. 

“Sorry, did I nick you?” Napoleon asked.

“Yes!” Illya's voice was louder than he'd intended, and he smiled ruefully.

“I'll be more careful, my apologies,” Napoleon said kindly as he started to carefully cut at the fabric again.

Illya gasped, putting his free hand out to stop Napoleon. “It's cutting my skin, Napoleon.”

“I'm sorry,” repeated Napoleon.

“No, the fabric is part of my skin. I can feel it,” Illya was started to breathe erratically. “The mask, it's my skin.”

Napoleon shook his head. “You're having a reaction or something. A panic attack, maybe. Try to breathe evenly. I'll call for help.”

Illya leaned into Napoleon, eyes closed. “Breathe, yes. I'm overreacting.”

He subconsciously pulled at his skin as Napoleon helped him to a bed, listening as Napoleon called for help. He tugged at the balding wig of hair and winced at the pain, feeling the wool skin under him as it chafed his side.

“Breathe,” he told himself as he started to choke.

 


End file.
